who am I – too

Yes, an advanced case of Alzheimer.

I am lying here. I don't know where. I don't care. It's not important to me. I could work it out if I wanted to, but why bother. I am very old. I have forgotten how old. It's not important to me. I could work it out if I wanted to, but it wouldn't help me much. How old am I? Two. Ha, ha! It's a joke! Get it! Two old.

No! It's the Alzheimer; you know what they say: first Hildesheimer, then Mannheimer and then Alzheimer. Yes, an advanced case of Alzheimer; I've probably got Parkinson and Psittacosis as well.

Everybody has left me, my husband died years ago, all my friends died one by one, and the love of my life died in my arms about five years ago. I fell apart after that. The memory of her is the only thing I have left. She lives in my mind every day. The happiness of her memory often drives me to tears.

The nurses think that I am depressed and I am sure the doctor has prescribed awful tablets for me. I am supposed to swallow two hundred various pieces of coloured chalk every day. One day I kept them in the corner of my mouth and didn't swallow them. I put them in a vase of flowers when the nurse was gone. Two interesting things happened that day; I felt much better and the flowers died.

Yes, I can think much better now, the fog in my head has gone and I feel stronger. Today I managed to reach for the TV remote control and turn the awful thing off. I was never a great TV watcher and now I can't see it properly anyway. So why must the nurse turn it on every morning; I tell her I don't want it. Maybe I'll get strong enough to throw the remote control at the TV and turn it off for ever.

And why can't I have a jar of pickled walnuts to eat. They are not expensive. The doctor said that I could have one walnut if I promised to take my medicine again. I said that if I took that poison again I would forget everything, the walnuts and even my name.

Not that I could really forget my name, but everybody else does. My name is not Mrs Hodges, no one has ever called me that except in this place, I don't need the so called respect that the use of this formal name is supposed to bring. My name is Bunny.

The priest visits me. I told him about my great love. He said that I had been married to a man. He doesn't understand, he doesn't want to understand. Why do people want to tell me what to think? I must be well over hundred. I think of my love. I had two children, but my love had, er, I've forgotten, more that twelve anyway, she was always in milk.

Things got better last week. I had a visit from a nice young man. Peter has to do civic duties because he didn't want to do computer war games. He talks to me and keeps me happy.

I've told him about the time that I was his age. I told him about my great love and how she went completely over the edge doing just what he is doing now. I told him how I nursed her back to health. He found this very moving. I said that she had written a book about it; I wonder what happened to it. He calls me Bunny and has even promised to bring me a jar of pickled walnuts. Perhaps I just dreamed it. I am waiting for